I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm... participating. In whatever this is. Spy games and painted turnips and a mad god who gets jealous when I laugh with his best friend.
My life has gotten very weird.
The war room is too warm and smells of bodies that have been sitting too long.
I'm in Koshin's chair. Again. The same one he put me in that first meeting—his seat, the head seat, the one that saysthis person mattersto everyone in the room whether they like it or not. He's standing behind me now, one hand resting on the back of the chair, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the wood.
Focus. This matters.
War came back. After Koshin walked out on him two days ago and then accepted the alliance via messenger before War could even get offended, Caius returned with his full delegation
War's people fill the other side of the room. Caius himself sits at the center of their delegation, arms crossed, jaw set. He hasn't made any broad gestures today. Hasn't raised his voice. He's been careful.
He's massive. That's the first thing anyone would notice—tall and broad. Brown hair pulled back in a tight knot that says discipline louder than any uniform could. His beard is long, thick, the kind that takes years to grow and longer to maintain, and it only makes his jaw look more brutal. His eyes are the kind of sharp that makes you check if you've done something wrong even when you haven't.
Scars cover his hands and forearms, old white lines crossing newer pink ones, centuries of combat written on his skin.
His clothes are dark red and steel-gray, functional, nothing decorative. Chest straps and weapon harnesses visible under his coat because apparently gods don't believe in subtlety. The heavy cloak draped over his chair is positioned just so—showing the godsteel blade at his hip.
Everything about him says I could kill everyone in this room and we all know it.
Which, yeah. He probably could.
"—Coin's consolidating their hold on the northern corridor," one of War's people is saying. A woman with close-cropped hair and a scar bisecting her eyebrow. "If they control the shipping routes, they control supply for two territories before anyone can respond."
"Then we respond now." Varn. Built to break things, voice to match. "Strike before they finish positioning."
"Strike with what?" Sira, Discord's spymaster. Her voice is flat. "We don't have the forces for a direct assault on Coin infrastructure. Neither does War."
"We have enough—"
"You have enthusiasm. That's not the same thing."
The room ripples. War's people bristle. Discord's people go very, very still.
Koshin hasn't spoken in fifteen minutes. His eyes keep drifting shut, then snapping open—white catching the lamplight when he blinks. He's here, but he's also somewhere else entirely.
"The problem isn't force," Caius says. His voice fills the room without effort. "The problem is information. Coin knows our movements before we make them. Someone is feeding them intelligence."
No one speaks.
"Discord's network—" one of War's lieutenants starts. A thick-necked man with a scar running through his lip.
"Discord's network is the only reason you know about the northern corridor at all," Renan cuts in. He's by the wall near Koshin, arms crossed. Relaxed. Which means he's ready to kill someone. "You want to accuse us of something, do it clearly so I can be insulted properly."
"I'm not accusing—"
"You are. Badly. Work on your delivery."
Hands drift toward weapons. Someone's chair scrapes against the floor.
Koshin doesn't move.
"We need a decision," Caius says. He's looking at Koshin. Everyone's looking at Koshin. "Discord controls the information streams. You can cut Coin off from their sources, or you can let them keep bleeding us dry. Which is it?"
Nothing.
The whole room holds its breath. The Mad God is actually listening.
